Saluting the American State

It took going to the beach to get me into my jean jacket.

When packing for this trip, I'd taken into consideration the fact that Portland was trapped under a stagnant air mass that was causing an unprecedented heat wave. Not so much in temperature (apparently they hit over 100 degrees every summer), but in duration.

So after packing a bunch of cute summer dresses and a few lightweight, crocheted cover-ups, I'd felt ready to sweat with the hipsters. Then, at the proverbial eleventh hour, I'd tossed in my jean jacket, you know, just in case.

How was I to know that the one and only place I'd need it all week was at the beach?

For our last full day in Oregon, we abandoned wine country to head to the coast along with thousands of Oregonians who hit the highways for the holiday weekend.

Fortunately, they were interesting routes that took us past a field of colorful tee-pees, a house fronted by a totem pole with an elk's head on the top and several one-lane bridges that required oncoming drivers to wait their turn. There was even a fitting holiday sign proclaiming, "God Bless the USA! Ribs * Shortcake!"

When we left the Willamette Valley, the temperature was just over 90 and the further west we headed, the further the temperature plummeted until we hit 63 degrees and I had to pull the jean jacket out of the trunk. It sure wasn't feeling like any Fourth of July celebration I'd ever had.

Arriving at Pacifica Beach, home of the dory fleet (and a host of warning signs, including one for "sneaker waves," whatever they might be. Sneaky waves that don't announce themeselves, perhaps?), we were greeted (symbolically) by a huge rock sitting just beyond the breakers, an imposing formation that screamed "west coast beach" much the way the cars on the beach and the people huddled in sweatshirts and jackets tucked in between cars for a wind break did.

Only the youngest children played at water's edge while their parents stayed warm between the rows of trucks and SUVs. When we came across three kids buried up to their necks in sand, we assumed it was for warmth. Walking down the wide beach, to our left was a huge tidal pool, in some places almost four feet deep, and far more people were playing in its considerably warmer water.

Usually I'm on the Outer Banks for this holiday week and after years of being down there, we know to expect an influx of day trippers, many in holiday-appropriate red, white and blue beach garb. Not so much in Oregon.

But what they lack in patriotic beachwear, they more than make up for in pedestrian friendliness. We'd been impressed in Portland with the way drivers stopped for pedestrians at every crosswalk, even when they had the light, but I was bowled over to see people slowing down on 45 mph roads to allow people to cross the road. As a daily walker, that's a battle I fight every day, so it was impressive to see such respect for those on foot.

Our second beach was Cannon Beach, a place with more of a resort feel, catering to people on vacation with some cash. Haystack Rock is the big photographic draw, so we obliged before taking another beach stroll.

We stopped when we saw a sign for "true oceanfront dining," although the deck was full so we took a table near a window with a view of the beach and ocean (and two screaming toddlers at the next table, but that's a different rant). With a bottle of Argyle Brut, a Dungeness crab cocktail and a cheese plate, we focused on the view not the clamor.

During the drive back to Portland, I researched dinner options and made reservations at Aviary, a pan-Asian place that had come highly recommended. Tucked into what appeared to be an office building, the sleek restaurant had a half dozen tables outside but not one was occupied.

Asking to dine al fresco, the hostess showed surprise but obliged. As one of our severs later told us, "When I saw you sitting outside I figured you weren't from Oregon." The same temperature in Richmond would all but guarantee that every patio in town would be mobbed.

Almost everyone who left the restaurant and walked by our table commented on how nice it was outside now. Their point was that when they'd arrived, it had been hot as Hades and no one would consider eating in such heat.

Whatever. When yet another person walked out making that comment, she looked to me to reassure herself. "It was ungodly hot out here," she lamented. When I asked if she was from Oregon, she said yes, paused, bit her tongue and walked on. No defense, huh?

Our meal wound up being one of the best of the week with creatively conceived dishes boasting the freshest tasting ingredients and exquisite presentation.

Beet and asparagus salad sounds pretty civilian, but this one came encased in paper-thin slices of beet wrapped around frisee, chunks of beet and spears of asparagus, all encircled by a dressing of yogurt and za'atar.

Just as pretty was a prawn salad covered in a spicy berbere crisp with lemon anchovy emulsion, paper thin slices of grape and cukes.

Dungeness crab chawanmushi was a Japanese egg custard dish, silken on the tongue, and adorned with sea urchin, Asian pear, snap peas and truffle vinaigrette. Obscenely decadent, I couldn't even finish it all.

Carrying over our Douglas Fir theme from the distillery a few days before, we also had NY strip smoked over Douglas Fir atop a plate-sized potato puree made mostly of butter and cream and taken over the top with bone marrow custard.

By the time I ordered what our server called chocolate pudding, there were only a few tables left inside, so we'd had visits from multiple servers eager to talk to us east coast types. One told us how much she enjoyed outsiders because all too often everyone she meets is from "here."

My pudding turned out to be a chocolate pot de creme with fruit compote (honestly, fruit is so plentiful here that we'd be strolling down the street and could just pull different varieties of cherries off trees as we walked along), bourbon ice cream and verbena leaves. Did I mention the ridiculously large size of the portion?

As we were downing that, one of the servers came out and sat down at a nearby table. I had a sense that he needed a break from the dining room and when another server came out to ask if he was okay, his response was, "Elitist vegan pricks!"

I could almost have guessed which group he was talking about, but I'm betting Oregon restaurants have to deal with a fair amount of picky eater pricks.

One thing they never have to deal with is being very far away from a coffee shop. To this non-coffee drinker, it's ludicrous, but the ubiquity of them ensures that if you need a latte between when you park your car and when you walk into the garden store/office building/boutique nearby, it's mere steps to get it.

Hell, we saw coffee shacks (pop-ups?) set up in parking lots of other stores. Apparently Portland has more caffeine sources than Seattle. And, no, we didn't bother with the Portland mecca that is VooDoo Doughnuts after being told by a Richmond to Portland transplant that the doughnuts are better at home.

So, then, my quest to investigate how Richmond-like Portland really is has come to an end, so it's necessarily time for me to draw some questionable conclusions.

Portland, like Richmond, seems to have stellar dining and music scenes. They can't touch us tattoo for tattoo, although I saw a fair amount of piercings and ear plugs. Flannel and plaid shirts abound, and not in an ironic way, but are they thrift finds like they would undoubtedly be in Richmond? Hard to say.

Our server one evening had on a t-shirt that read, "Oregon...the American state!" When I asked what that meant, she had no idea, she'd just liked the picture on the shirt when she found it thrifting.

Mostly, everyone seems more than happy with life as an Oregonian, radiating sunshine, lollipops and rainbows with every interaction we had with them. Even so, everyone mentioned the two months of solid rain, escalating rents (the bartender at Ned Ludd marveled at my RVA rent), the hunkering down everyone does during the gray winters, and how you just adjust to those parts of life here.

Do you? My question to each person who presented less-than-ideal aspects of Portland was, and you live here why? Because they like the other parts.

Do they seem categorically happier than Richmonders? I don't think so. We may not have the fresh-faced, lumber-sexual thing going for us, but when we go to the beach in July, we most definitely do not need a jean jacket.

And when it comes to t-shirts, if any state qualifies to be labeled "The American State," shouldn't it be the one granted statehood in 1788 (ahem, Virginia) and not the one barely sneaking in before the Civil War (Oregon in 1859)?

Okay, Oregon, I'll take your long days, pedestrian-friendliness and abundant gardens and raise you history, southern charm and tattoos. This populist omnivore Pollyanna would also happily return...for a visit.